When I was in my early teens I was a member of the Hornsby RSL Youth Club and on Anzac Day we were encouraged to represent the RSL Youth Club by marching in the local Anzac Day March (I also participated in the march in Sydney in the early seventies). I felt so proud marching on this special day even as a 12 year old. My grandfather Colin Thomson, who served in the Second World War, participated in the local march as well. One of my proudest moments was when we finished the march and we were standing in remembrance around the Cenotaph in Hornsby. It was and always has been a solemn and reflective time. I looked over to see my Grandpa’s head bent in remembrance and it made me feel so proud of this lovely man, who had lost his brother Lachlan in the same war (I didn’t know that as a 12 year old).
I suppose this is why I always feel that Anzac Day is such a special day. I’ve spent many Anzac Days watching the telecast on the ABC, which always brings a tear to my eye. We used to watch with the hope of seeing one of my uncles or parents’ friends on the TV as these very proud men marched by (of course they have all passed away now). Even today just hearing the stirrings of the drums in the pipe bands, as they begin their march, makes me thoughtful.
My brother’s son Nicholas belongs to his school’s cadets and wears his Great Grandfather’s medals in his school’s Anzac Day March.
Today I’m able to go and watch the march in Sydney and I will definitely be taking a box of tissues.
If you have an Anzac Day story please let me know.
We will remember them
Lest we forget.
